


Safe. Almost.

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Incest, Kinks, M/M, Phone Sex, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t do this on a regular basis, but sometimes, it does happen. Inappropriate late night phone calls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe. Almost.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the phone sex square of my Kink Bingo.  
> Thanks to Subtlefire for the beta.

The bedroom is cool, but quickly growing moist and warm.

He couldn’t sleep in the sterilized and quiet atmosphere of his apartment. After shifting and turning in bed for a while, he cracked open the large French doors and let the heavy night air sneak in; it didn’t help. He’s still as restless after the heat, humidity and drone rising from the city have started slipping inside, so eventually, he does what he does when this happens: grab his phone and dial the first number on the list. He’s already sweating a bit in the newly tepid air, and the perspiration surging on his skin is making the dark plastic clammy, but the cordless phone is secured between his ear and shoulder. It won’t escape him or slide down unless he allows it. He’s not a rookie.

“Talk to me.”

He speaks as soon as Lincoln picks up the phone. He doesn’t give his brother the time to ask or say anything. It would be pointless, only delaying the reason he’s calling, and he can’t afford this right now. Too edgy, among other things.

“It’s...” The sound of sheets ruffling as Lincoln rolls around to take a look at the clock filters through the phone. Michael breathes in deeply and digs the back of his head into the pillow; he’s not calling for an update on the time. “... two A.M., Michael.”

Looks like Lincoln doesn’t care how edgy and other things he is. “I can’t sleep,” he says as if it explained everything – and to some extent, it does.

“Two fucking A.M., Michael,” Lincoln repeats. Michael doesn’t point out he got it the first time. Linc’s voice, gruff and rough from sleep, makes his skin prickle.

“I need to hear you. You know...” He clears his throat and tries to convey what he wants without having to word it. Depending on his mood and the state of his stash of pot, Lincoln may or may not make him work for it. “Please talk to me.”

Something in his tone must make its way into this thick skull of Linc’s because he catches on, snorts and grumbles, “I can text you _great_ numbers to call if you let me sleep.”

“You’re cheaper. And more effective.” Flattery doesn’t cost anything; it also can get him what he needs and then some. And it’s not flattery if it’s the truth, right? “What are you wearing?”

“Seriously?” Lincoln’s irritation starts to ebb away, replaced with amusement. It’s not exactly what Michael’s after, but it’s a step forward. “It’s the best you can come up with?”

Michael shifts on the mattress. He’s hard, painfully hard, and he has been for a while. He smoothes his hand over his stomach. Knowing Lincoln is on the other end of the line and won’t hang up is the promise of a release he couldn’t achieve by himself; he allows his fingers to edge further down. He brushes the tip of his erection, fails to suppress a grunt and can hear Lincoln chuckling. Whatever. Linc can chuckle has much as he likes as long as he performs.

They don’t do this on a regular basis, but sometimes, it does happen. Inappropriate late night phone calls. It’s the furthest they’ll take things, and they won’t ever discuss or mention it face to face. It’s not necessary. It’s just whispers in the dark, grunts and harsh breathing, the proverbial helping hand brought to a peculiar level. Nothing more. It’s safe. Almost. The distance, the inability to touch and see, the fact that they talk but never about one another _together_... all that keeps it in the realm of tolerable – warped tolerable.

“Lincoln...” Michael sighs, almost chastising him.

“Heat wave,” he bites out. “It’s like 85 degrees out there and _I_ don’t have air conditioning. What do you think I’m wearing, genius?”

Lincoln on his bed. Naked on his bed. Sweaty and sleepy. Sturdy body, strong muscles on display, straining, faintly rolling and rippling as he moves into a comfy position. Lazily pulling on his dick because, no matter how much he’s protesting, this is what he does when he gets this kind of phone call from Michael.

Michael swallows hard and admonishes himself right away. This shouldn’t be about Lincoln. The tacit rule is that they do just enough dirty talking to get the other off, thank you and good night. No fantasizing about each other; it’s fucked up enough as it is.

That said, if Michael gives more thought to it, it’s Lincoln who teased first and broke the rule. He won’t bring up the fact that _he_ asked about Lincoln’s clothing, and he will consider that he’s in his right when he licks his lips and pictures Linc’s broad shoulders and ridged stomach – for now, he’ll rest at that.

Or not. Dark curly hairs line down from Lincoln’s navel to his groin. They’re absurdly soft, or they certainly seem to be. It’s not like Michael ever had the opportunity to test this theory. He would, right now, if Lincoln was near him; he would trail his index finger from his big brother’s belly button to...

Fuck.

The first time, it was a coincidence: sarcastic comments on some poorly made soft porn over the phone that went awry. The display of too big muscles, too large breasts, too tanned skin and too loud moans had done nothing but have him snickering. Lincoln’s suggestions on how improving the thing, the raunchy quality of his tone, though... whole different story. And, as he’d found out when he’d started to prompt Linc for more, it had been quid pro quo.

Lincoln starts talking about a woman he slept with. He throws in just the right amount of ‘boobs’ and ‘thighs’, ‘so wet and tight’ and ‘come’; he’s on the verge of vulgarity but never tipping over. Michael thinks so, anyway. He doesn’t really care about the pretty blonde – nine out of ten times, they’re blonde, maybe because Vee was a brunette – Linc says he bent over the kitchen table, nailed against the tiled wall of his shower, and even screwed slow and nice in his bed. It’s the low and enticing rumble of Lincoln’s voice itself that riles him up.

“Lick your fingers.”

The sudden command snaps him out of his haze and makes his heart miss a beat. He mumbles, “What?” not entirely sure he got it right, and forces himself to focus on what Linc’s saying.

“Lick your fingers,” Lincoln repeats with a fake patience. “Get them wet.” His voice lowers an octave. “You know where I want them to go, Mikey.”

Double fuck.

“What... what are you doing?”

His mind is screaming _off script_ – so much off script. His dick seems to enjoy the plan, but it doesn’t mean anything. Right now, his dick would enjoy any kind of stimulation.

“You want to get off, don’t you? This is what you called for.”

Well... this is new. Cautiously, as if Lincoln could actually see him, he complies. He opens wide and sucks on three of his fingers, coating them liberally with saliva. There’s a wet pop when he lets the digits out of his mouth; the pop is answered with a sharp intake of air on the other end of the phone.

Oh. So definitely and utterly off script.

“Did she do that to you?” he guesses while twisting his hips to one side and reaching for his buttocks. He feels a bit awkward but, thank God, the ridiculous doesn’t kill. “The pretty blonde?”

Lincoln utters a “yeah” reeking of faked reluctance and asks Michael about _his_ last fancy story.

That’s an easy one. “The glass wall in my living room...” he begins in a slow, silky voice.

He doesn’t need to expand. It’s a good thing because, as soon as Linc’s appreciative groan grazes his ear, a disturbingly clear picture forms in Michael’s mind. He’s leaning against said wall, the whole city shining in the dark beneath him, under him, and Lincoln kneeling in front of him, looking up at him, lips slightly parted. Or even better, Lincoln is leaning against the glass wall, stark-naked and hard, and _he_ is on his knees and craning his neck to reach...

Fuck. _Fuckfuckfuck._

His middle finger slides in easily. The welcome intrusion, the fantasy, Lincoln’s grunts matching his own in the phone have him gasp and scramble. He curses under his breath. His jerk of a brother was supposed to help him get rid of the problem, not make it worse – make him harder and _this_ close to being delirious with want.

“Nice, huh?” Linc says proudly, as though he was responsible for the invention of the fucking fingering thing.

Michael has to concede on that, though: it is nice. Especially when Lincoln suggests for him to “pump” and “crook your finger” and “rub”. It’s more an order than a suggestion, really, one he’s all too eager to follow. He’s not one hundred percent sure what’s so nice; the sensations his self-caressing frenzy arise, or the voice mumbling secretively in his ear, familiar and yet slightly distorted. At this point, it’s hard to care, anyway. If Lincoln’s heavy pants are any indication, he’s feeling the same.

He’s squeezing the smooth and hard plastic of the phone so tightly between his ear and his shoulder they’re starting to feel numb, but he barely pays attention to the discomfort. Later. For now, he closes his free hand around his erection and strokes it in strong and slow motions, trying to keep his rhythm with his other hand too. The double stimulation feels fantastic. It would feel even more fantastic if it was Lincoln’s fingers fondling his ass, playing with his balls and his cock; they would tease and slide, weigh and stroke. Linc’s fingers are so rough and yet can be so nimble. Michael knows this from the times when he grazed the skin of his arm or his hand for one reason or another. Sparks of lust stab his lower back and stomach at the thought of Lincoln’s hands on him. Taking care of him in ways he really shouldn’t bring up, even now. He writhes at his own touch.

A raw moan wrenched out of his throat, Lincoln’s name falling from his lips in a quick staccato, and his brother is spilling, “God, I so want to fuck you right now...” It’s husky and indecent and furtive, but Michael catches it. There is no way he doesn’t catch it.

He’ll never know if Lincoln actually means it, if he lets it slip in the heat of the moment or is merely taking the dirty talking to a higher, pushing-it-too-far level. He’ll never dare to ask. But the unabashed confession tips him over. He comes in harsh and messy spurts; the drops of thick fluid gushing on his forearm, sliding on his stomach and trickling down his fingers.

He closes his eyes. Way to get his damn long-delayed release.

He can hear Lincoln still puffing in the phone. He has a wicked smirk and barely any hesitation, too elated, high on pleasure and maybe too grateful to think twice. “I’d let you,” he offers in a whisper.

He twitches in the sheets damp with sweat at the sound of Lincoln’s orgasm.

\----------

Sweat is still surging and sticky on his chest and his back, but his heartbeat is gradually slowing and his breathing is calming down. It is warm and moist in here now, almost stuffy. Michael knows he can’t entirely chalk it up to the outside air that has invaded the room.

“We can’t do that again,” he says in the phone in a low and rough murmur. Come is cooling and drying on his skin. He winces, both because of the sensation itself and because of how he’s finally been able to let go. “It’s not safe, it’s crazy. We...”

“It’s never been safe, Mike,” Lincoln cuts him off tiredly. There is a certain gravity in his tone that pushes Michael to wonder if his brother has caught on to all the dirty little fantasies whirling in his head. If Lincoln had gone there even before Michael did. With this possibility, his mind reels and his stomach clenches in a not totally unpleasant way.

If it’s a warning.

Or a carte blanche.

Or just an acknowledgement of things changing.

No matter how the atmosphere of his apartment doesn’t feel sterilized and quiet anymore, no matter how sated and spent he is, he won’t sleep at all, tonight.

-End-


End file.
